Page 1 of One December Morning
1
22 DECEMBER
Peg paused by the garden gate, captivated by the change in the scenery. The world had been transformed overnight. Gone were the muted greens and mud browns of winter, and in their place a layer of sparkling, iridescent white. What was stark and bare now stood in shining splendour.
True hoarfrosts were rare and those she remembered the most were from her childhood, when she’d been fascinated by the wonder of a spider’s web made crystalline, and the curve of holly leaves on the bush at the bottom of her garden, each one seemingly dipped in sugar. But then she grew up and work replaced the wonder, marriage and a family replaced the fascination. They had still been there, but faded into the background of Peg’s busy life. Now she was older she had time to stand and stare.
Inhaling the crisp morning air, Peg turned back to look at the woman who had been such a huge part of her life and now, even in her eighties, still capable of the fiercest hugs. Peg didn’t want to think about how her aunt’s ample figure felt a little less round each time she visited, or how the corners of her house stayed a little more dusty, and focused instead on Mim’s big,wide smile which lit up her pale blue eyes and set them twinkling with mischief. They were the same blue eyes Peg had inherited, as had everyone on her mother’s side of the family – even Peg’s children had been blessed. Peg always reckoned she’d inherited her indomitable spirit from her aunt as well, and more often than not she greeted the day as Mim did – full-on, staring it straight in the face.
There had been a time though, not that long ago, when Peg had struggled to get out of bed at all. For months. And it wasn’t that her memories of Julian had faded; more that these days she had learned to be grateful for them instead of seeking to push them, and the pain they caused, away.
She raised her arm and waved, knowing that despite the coldness of the day and Peg’s entreaties to stay inside, Mim would stand on the doorstep and wave until Peg’s car had reached the end of the road and she turned out of sight.
Peg’s heart lifted at the thought of what awaited her at the other end of her journey – the Cotswold village where she had lived for the last thirty-odd years, with its leafy lanes and jumble of golden stone buildings. Green verges and thatched cottages, gabled roofs and the hotch-potch of chimneys on the old vicarage. But even as she pulled open her car door and climbed inside, the thought had already become tinged with sadness. She couldn’t go on pretending that everything was fine, or putting off the decision for another year. Mim wasn’t getting any younger, and her last illness had shaken her confidence badly. However much it broke her heart, this Christmas would be Peg’s last at Bramble Cottage, and she had known it for some time. She dug out her brightest smile and waved again as she slowly drove away.
Peg was deep in thought as she pulled into the petrol station. It was her last chance to buy fuel before the motorway, but that wasn’t the only reason she stopped in this village. She’d been doing it for as long as she could remember. Smack bang in the centre of the village, John and Julia Clements’ shop was part convenience store, part delicatessen, part hub of all village gossip, and had the added benefit of a large helping of charm thrown in for good measure. So what if their petrol was a few pence more expensive than elsewhere? For Peg, who avoided ‘corporate’ at any cost, it was a rarity to find a business like this still open. Where else could she be greeted by a six-foot-high tree with an animated ‘mouth’ which grinned as it sang ‘Have a Holly Jolly Christmas’? Where else could she buy chocolates made by Julia herself, with fondant centres of raspberries, strawberries and blackberries from her own garden? Where else would she be treated like a friend rather than a customer? And where else would a doe-eyed Irish Wolfhound nuzzle her hand on the lookout for treats? Not on the motorway, that much was certain.
The place was busy today and Peg felt another surge of longing for home. The main street in her own village would be bustling, the brightness of the morning bringing people out to run last-minute errands, yet still stopping to chat at the bus stop beside the village green. Fairy lights would be festooned from every tree and window, and an enormous wreath would be hung on the pub door, garlanded with bright red ribbon. She sighed with contentment as she pulled alongside one of only two petrol pumps and began to fill up her car. She would be there soon.
The shop was loud with voices as Peg pushed open the door, smiling as the Christmas tree burst into song. Other people might be tempted to rip its plug from the wall in the first half hour of use, but not the Clements. And not Peg. It was as much a part of her Christmas now as the first ritual playing of her Michael Bublé album.
Of the people inside, probably only one other had come to pay for petrol – the rest were there for newspapers, or loaves of bread, fat with olives, forgotten jars of cranberry sauce or iced gingerbread men freshly baked that morning. Some, like her, were there for Julia’s chocolates. It always did to keep a box in the house at this time of year, just in case of unexpected visitors bearing gifts, or, in Peg’s case (knowing full well that any unexpected visitors shedidhave were not the kind to bring gifts), so that she could eat them herself.
She stood back to let a man move past her, his face harried as he squeezed through the gap. He was clutching a phone to his ear while trying to unscrew the top from a bottle of water and neither action was going particularly well. She opened the door for him and smiled in sympathy as he pulled a rueful face at her. She’d spent far too many Christmases of her own in the past worn to a frazzle, dazed by the sheer number of things there seemingly were to do; but now that she knew better, she rejected the seasonal hysteria. It was far simpler and far nicer. Every year the cover of the magazine she wrote for screamed that this would be theBest Christmas Ever!and she winced in dismay whenever she saw it. Expectation was a dangerous thing, in her opinion.
In the end, she bought two boxes of Julia’s chocolates. She couldn’t decide between the lure of her favourites or the opportunity to try some new ones, so she shrugged and carried both to the till. Life was too short.
Outside, a car was waiting for the pump, so Peg pulled forward into one of the parking spaces the shop reserved for customers. She wanted to check her phone before the last leg of her journey and fetch a packet of Werther’s from her bag in the boot. Once she was on the motorway there would be no stopping.
The harried man from the shop was parked in the space beside her, and was now rubbing ineffectually at his windscreenwith a small piece of tissue. It had no doubt been fished from his pocket, probably already crumpled and next to useless even before he’d applied it to the window.
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she remarked cheerfully as she climbed from her car. Receiving no reply, she stopped and indicated his screen. ‘I have a cloth if you’d like to borrow it,’ she added.
The man looked up, all manner of expressions crossing his face. Eventually his lips twitched in what might have been a smile. ‘I wasn’t expecting this today,’ he said. ‘My water jets are frozen solid. And with all this muck on the roads, I can’t see a thing…I bought some water from the shop to try to clear it but it’s freezing on the screen.’ He grimaced. ‘Mind you, it was from the fridge so it’s halfway there already.’
Now that she looked, Peg could see the glass was covered in a layer of crusty brown. ‘I think it’s all the grit they’ve put on the roads,’ she said. ‘It stops us sliding about but I agree, it’s mucky stuff.’
The man looked pointedly at Peg’s windscreen which, in contrast, gleamed in the weak sunshine. She laughed. ‘I unblocked my jets before I left,’ she said. ‘Hang on, I’ve got something which might help.’
She edged between the two cars and opened the passenger door, taking out a large flask which was propped on the seat. A cloth sat beside it and she fetched that too, handing both to the man.
‘It’s just tepid water,’ she said. ‘But it will clear your screen, and if you trickle it onto your water jets as well it will hopefully unblock those, too. It might take a few goes to melt the ice, but…’ She trailed off. ‘Sorry, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I’m sure you’re more than capable…’ She stopped again. The man had enough on his plate already by the look of things; he didn’t need her life story as well. To her surprise, though, he laughed.
‘Are you always this organised?’ The weary look was replaced by one of amusement.
Peg pulled a face. ‘I am, I’m afraid. I’m—’ She was about to say ‘on her own’ but she stopped. ‘Just made that way, I guess. But I’ve got a couple of hours’ journey ahead of me and I didn’t want to get caught out.’
‘Yeah, me too. The journey, that is, not the part where I should have planned for it. Are you driving home for Christmas?’
She nodded. ‘How about you?’
‘Yes, but to someone else’s home,’ he replied. ‘My son’s. And daughter-in-law’s.’ There was something about the way he said it which caught Peg’s attention, but she didn’t want to pry.
‘I’ve been to visit my aunt,’ said Peg. ‘Who I love to bits, but I’m very much looking forward to being back in my own front room, cat on my lap, sitting beside a roaring fire with a book in my hand and a pot of tea on the go.’
He unscrewed the cap from the flask. ‘And I’m holding you up,’ he said.
‘No, it’s fine, honestly, I don’t rush these days. In fact, I quite enjoy the journey. I put my music on, turn up the heating, and smile every time I see a car go by loaded up with presents. It’s a bit like that feeling you get on Christmas Eve when you’re a child. I love the anticipation.’
